


hard-fought happiness

by nap_princess



Category: Cinderella (1950), Cinderella - All Media Types
Genre: Cinderella is an icon and a strong woman and you can't tell me otherwise, F/M, Gen, Happy Ending, I ain't gonna mention the mice by name so they're just 'the mice', I'm basing Anastasia off Cinderella 2 and the Charles Perrault-version, Prince Henry is my fav Disney Prince himbo, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25448794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nap_princess/pseuds/nap_princess
Summary: There is nothing wrong with being soft— Cinderella-centric
Relationships: Cinderella & Anastasia Tremaine (Disney), Cinderella & Fairy Godmother (Disney), Cinderella & her animal friends, Prince Charming & Cinderella (Disney), Prince Charming/Cinderella (Disney)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	hard-fought happiness

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cinderella (1950) ](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/653740) by Disney. 
  * Inspired by [Cinderella (1997)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/653743) by Rodgers and Hammerstein. 
  * Inspired by [Cinderella: Stop Blaming the Victim](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/653746) by The Take. 
  * Inspired by [The Messed Up Origins of Cinderella | Disney Explained](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/653749) by Jon Solo. 
  * Inspired by [The Messed Up Origins of Cinderella (REVISITED!) | Fables Explained](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/653752) by Jon Solo. 



**hard-fought happiness**

* * *

* * *

“I’m not sure I want to meet this stranger. I doubt if he has any idea how a girl should be treated.”  
“Like a princess, I suppose?”  
“No. Like a person, with kindness and respect.”

— **Cinderella (1997)** , _Rodgers and Hammerstein_

* * *

Ella remembers being young, dressed and decorated in the prettiest blue dresses, ribbons and butterfly pins. She would twirl and dance and show off. Her father would smile and take her for rides of his loyal horse, Mayor, and her mother would chide for them to be back soon, in time for lunch.

It was so long ago, those happy memories.

And now she is no longer dressed in those pretty fabrics; forced to work as a scullery maid, forced to wear rags. Her step-family, they are horrid at times, but Ella is never unkind. She never raises her voice, never raises her hands.

That does not mean she is submissive though. Doesn't mean she is weak or frail. There is nothing wrong with being soft. She knows what the consequences are if she becomes hardened, if she fights against a losing battle; she will lose a warm bed, lose her home and her friends.

Her faith and ever-lasting optimism manifests itself; it remains in the form of kindness, in her high spirit and internal beauty.

* * *

Ella enjoys the little things in life — the smell of the meals she cooks, the warm afternoon sun. There is nothing more magical than listening to the birds sing, and the greatest joy in life is seeing the animals become gleeful after being fed.

Though, what Ella loves the best is the moment her head hits the pillow; the moment she has sweet, wishful dreams. She cherishes the sun going down and the moon rising to befriend the twinkling stars — for mornings are the busiest for her.

The mice and birds help her, of course. And her routine isn’t all that difficult to fulfil, but mornings are always the hardest to motivate herself out of bed — especially when she can continue dreaming.

She simply adores dreaming.

It is the only way she stays creative, stays sane and gentle. It is the only window of time she has to herself. It is only when there is a lack of wakefulness does she feel in control.

* * *

She fixes the fire, makes breakfast, does the dishes. She mops and sweeps and dusts. Her day is kept busy doing the laundry and the washing and the ironing.

She scrubs and cleans and labours for hours and hours, until her hands are raw, until she knows everything in the house is sparkling — everything, that is, except her. Because even after sacrificing and dedicating and slaving away by the stove, cinder ashes coat her dirty.

* * *

Anastasia, though spoiled and often bratty, is not as cruel. She may have inherited her mother's red, red hair, but Anastasia is soft at times. She is a little bit kinder than her mother and older sister, though much too young and just as afraid of Lady Termaine's wrath. She does not easily follow the influence of Drizella, choosing to keep her mouth shut when it came to taunts of 'Dirty Ella' and 'Cinder Wench'. 

But the one time Lady Tremaine set her cruel green eyes on her youngest daughter, Anastasia coughs up soft name — 'Cinder Ella', for the smudges of black soot on Ella's clothes. It wasn't as awful, wasn't as biting.

Ella knows Anastasia only said it in fear of upsetting Lady Tremaine — who grins at the barb. Drizella laughs too while Anastasia looks down at her feet, ashamed. Ella supposes she doesn't mind. 

Not at all. The name stuck after a while, so much so that even the mice called her so.

"Cinderelly, Cinderelly," They'd say, their voices soft and squeaky. They never had any malice in their tone.

That is her new name now.

* * *

"Ella," Her father had said so long ago, when he hadn't yet caught _the illness_ ; when dear Bruno was still a pup and Mayor was still a strong horse who disliked staying in the stables for _too long_.

"We'll have a new family soon," He continues, smiling at his daughter. His happiness reached his eyes. 

"Will I have a new mother?" Ella remembers asking, her hand small enough to fit and be swallowed by her father's large ones. They were so warm.

"Yes," He responses. "And two new sisters."

"Why?"

"Why?" He echoes then laughs at her child-like wonder. "Are you not lonely, my child?"

Ella shakes her head. "No." She replies. "I have Bruno and Mayor and the chickens and the mice and the birds."

"The mice and the birds?"

"They're my friends. They like to hear me sing,"

Her father smiles once more then hoists her up, holding her close. Wrapped in his arms, Ella thinks that this is the only place she’ll ever truly feels safe.

* * *

What Ella wants more than anything is a night — _one night_ — of pure freedom, one where she’s not loaded with chores and orders and abuse thrown at her face. She wants to escape the oppression and brutality weighted down by her step-family; stop the trauma and have some agency.

Ella has very little in her life (relying on resourcefulness, saving up scraps of clothing and sewing them into tiny hats and shoes and clothes), but — what she would give to will her dreams and fantasies to life.

But after her dress is torn — her lovely pink dress, the one she was supposed to wear to the royal ball, the few articles of clothing that Ella still recalls her late mother wearing — Ella runs out to the garden.

The violent assault that took place seconds ago is too much for her to bear. Ella feels that she is left with no more choices, no more wishful thinking. Her spirit is close to breaking and her emotions are everywhere, her tears are sliding down her cheeks and down her chin. She feels so beaten down, muttering into her arms as she refuses to accept this cruel version of reality.

“No, it isn’t true, it can’t be.” She whispers. No one but the company of the cool stone bench and the moon is there to soothe her fresh wounds.

She is just about to let undeserved burdens crash down on her and admit defeat when twinkling lights gather around her. An old frail hand touches her head, the same way her mother used to when Ella would cry other little things.

“Come now, my child.” Her Fairy Godmother says, stopping Ella from her sad woes of _‘It’s no use at all. I can’t do this anymore, there’s nothing left to believe in,’._

The old woman asks, “You haven’t lost all your faith, have you?” as she tilts Ella’s wet chin upwards.

The old woman speaks in rhymes. She makes miracles out of pumpkins and clocks and sewing, and then Ella is transformed; wearing a simple yet daring gown, her strawberry blonde hair poofing up and diamond jewellery redecorating her ears.

“Remember, my dear,” Her Fairy Godmother reminds. “Be back by midnight!”

For some (if not many), this may not seem much. But to Ella — dear, kind, sweet Ella — this is enough. A little bit of kindness will always be enough.

* * *

She walks down the castle’s hall in her silver gown and glass slippers. She’s mesmerised by the white marble and high architectures, the large windows and silk drapes, the lovely fountains and beautiful gardens. 

Crowds whisper as she takes it all in; they speak of her; saying that is sunset in a frame, that she wears an air of queenly grace, that anyone can see that a throne would be her proper place. But none know who she is.

Ella is a mystery that everyone wants to solve.

And while her blue eyes are still grasping at the reality of magic and pumpkin carriages and her mice turning into horses, a warm hand takes hers.

“Shall we dance?” The person asks then gives her a deep bow.

Ella smiles. She did say she wanted to dance the night away. She simply did not think it would happen so soon.

* * *

It feels like a dream, and in that dream, she sees _him_.

They dance around the ballroom, with the hum of instruments and eyes on them until they’re away, until they’re strolling through the gardens. The moon is once again casting on her and her reflection in the waters and this young man by her side.

Worries roll off her shoulders. She is glad she is free, and she is glad that she is spending this freedom with someone who enjoys her for her.

* * *

Their exit is a grand one.

An older man shouts for her to wait, the palace’s gates almost close on her pumpkin coach and a fleet of men on their horses chase after her. Ella is not sure what to do but begs Mayor and the mice to hurry, _hurry_ , **hurry!**

The clock’s chimes have never rung louder in her ears, telling her all the time _tick tick ticking_ away. 

The night is so wonderful that Ella is convinced that tonight is a figment of her imagination — that is, until she looks down and notes that her slipper still on her foot. It _is_ a dream, but a dream made real.

The ball had happened, and that young man was very much in love with her. Raising her head, Ella thanks her Fairy Godmother, and the goodwill and miracle bestowed on her. 

* * *

Her ability to love and to be loved, to be given the affection that she was so cruelly denied for so many years, gives her hope. It drives her to persevere, to escape the locked room when all seems lost once more. She wills it into existence.

The mice, the birds, Bruno, Mayor — she can save them. She can save everyone, including herself.

All her struggles and hardships are finally paying off, all her gentleness and kindness is finally coming to fruition. She throws open the door and runs down the stairs, calling for the Grand Duke the way he had the night she fled.

“Wait, please! Wait!” She says, waving her hand, never losing the undertones of her manners and decorum.

The Grand Duke’s face lights up, probably mirroring hers.

Nothing can stop her when she’s _this close_. Not Lady Tremaine’s lies, not her last attempt to shatter her dreams, not her evilness, for you see —

“If it would help, I have the other slipper.”

* * *

The carriage ride is filled with a hundred and one questions from the Grand Duke.

“But why a glass slipper?” He asks.

Ella ponders this as well. Her Fairy Godmother could have given her a slipper made out of velvet or silk, gold or silver like the ones that she’s read from fairy tales, but resorted to something else.

There is no doubt that Fairy Godmother’s magic is powerful — so powerful that Ella’s own step-family did not recognise her until the last minute. But Ella suspects the slipper has a different narrative; clear glass to see thought any trickery or curled toes; glass that’s moulded just for Ella’s tiny feet, inflexible to anyone else’s.

It only slipped off because she had spent the whole night dancing, making her shoes sleek with sweat.

“It’s a secret.” Ella replies. She won’t tell. Dreams won’t come true if she tells.

* * *

“I wished my father had let me find you,” The Prince says sincerely, his hands on top of her dainty ones. 

She would have been embarrassed, she would have pulled away, if not for the fact that his hands were just as calloused and tough from all the fencing lessons and boyish hobbies. The Prince did not seem to mind that her hands were worn from cleaning and sewing and gardening. With or without her stylish gloves, all it seems he wanted to do was hold her hand and keep her close.

“The Grand Duke disappeared into the night before I could even think of searching for you,” He explains further. “And when I voiced out my need to follow, my father forbid it. I’m glad the Duke found you though, I’m so glad. My father’s orders to him were to find any maiden who fits the glass slipper, I would have jumped out the castle window and looked for you myself if the Duke had brought back someone else.”

Ella laughs. “It’s alright, Your Highness.”

His face falls at the formalities. “Henry.” He tells her. “You can call me ‘Henry’,”

She nods, grinning at him.

“And what shall I call you?” He asks.

A million different names fill her head. Cruel ones and lovely ones and other nicknames that she did not mind. But she settles on the name that she likes best, one the name that suits her heart.

“My name is Ella.”

* * *

**end**

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: As said from Hinata on _YouTube_ , “She [Cinderella] doesn’t internalize it [abuse]. She doesn't believe she deserves to be treated this way. She is in a powerless position and yet she stays confident and practices quite a resistance, while still keeping her gentle trusting nature, breaking the cycle of abuse.” and I love it. I love the praise of Cinderella being a powerful woman by choosing to be kind and optimistic.
> 
> — 23 July 2020


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